


He Hath No Fury

by qualapec



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qualapec/pseuds/qualapec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marechal lives his dream in Hell. every. single. day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Hath No Fury

In Hell, Marechal got to live his dream.

He stalked towards his quarry, his sabre a reassuring weight in his palm as the naked blade flashed in the light from dozens of flames that surrounded them.

Cabal stood before him, holding his legs in that dainty fencer’s stance, thin blade held vertically as he waited for Marechal’s advance. The calculating stare was captured almost perfectly. Marechal swung his sword and Cabal parried. There was the slightest surprise in Cabal’s eyes, the first flash of real concern as he felt a crushing blow. Marechal’s arm was calculated for killing, and his sword no stranger to it. This was a blade meant to slice, stab, thrust, and crush bones. Cabal’s sword was meant for quick attacks and retreats, death by a thousand cuts.

Then came the moment that Marechal relished.

Cabal faltered, a mistake, a gap between the drop of his blade and the realization that Marechal’s sabre was arching towards him, coming in for a wound that would be lethal. It was so lovely on Cabal’s arrogant, sarcastic face --- the realization that Marechal had won, the simultaneous search for a solution as impending doom grew in his eyes.

The blade sunk into Cabal’s stomach. There was a strangled scream and some flailing before he died, and the image faded into ashes seconds later, blending in with the blood red sand that coated all of hell.

Marechal breathed, grin wild and maniacal as sweat dripped from his brow.

He heard footsteps behind him. “Guten Tag, Marechal.”

He turned around to see another Cabal standing there, holding a revolver that he knew to have one shot at him. He fired once, and Marechal rushed him, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm at an impossible angle until he heard a crack. The gun dropped onto the sand, and Marechal held the squirming Cabal under him, cackling. “Why. Won’t. You. Just. DIE!?” His hands snaked around the throat of the other man and squeezed. There was a sharp sting from Cabal’s switchblade digging into his stomach, but he felt so alive, so exhilarated, that it was barely a bite. Cabal was starting to panic, twisting underneath him, silently begging for breath, for mercy.

“No,” Marechal whispered, “no mercy. Not for you. Not. _Ever._ ” Undignified dribbles of spit were coming out on his gloves.

“Oh, Marechal!” Someone called out.

“Just a minute!” Marechal yelled back.

“It’s tea time, my friend.”

Marechal’s grip faltered, and he turned around to see the devil standing at the entrance to the dark, cavernous room. “Oh, is it? I completely lose track of time in this place.”

Satan grinned. “That’s because time doesn’t technically exist here.”

Marechal rolled back onto his hips, releasing the gasping Cabal’s throat. “Well, I can hardly miss out on tea. Real Mirkarvian cedar smoked tea, I presume?”

“Naturally.”

“Ah,” Marechal stood and brushed himself off, barely taking note of Cabal rolling over, crawling futilely, towards his discarded pistol. “Just give me a second to clean up,” Marechal smiled, pulled his service revolver, and shot Cabal twice in the back. The image faded to dust.

Marechal lived his dream in Hell, again, and again, and again.

~~~

“So what do you think of the Hellfire season?”

“Dreadful. The Skins are never going to win against the Plate-Armors.”

“It’s like being a Cubs fan.”

Marechal raised a confused eyebrow.

“The Chicago Cubs, in the United States?” Satan tilted his head.

Marechal continued staring at him blankly.

Satan waived a dismissive hand. “Sorry. I forgot you Mirkarvians didn’t care for sports that weren’t all, war games and the like. Or Mirkarvian.”

Marechal took a sip of delightfully strong tea. He rather liked Satan more than he expected that he would. He’d heard from other fallen souls that Satan appeared to them however they most wanted to see him --- one of his lieutenants in life saw a great black bat, Satunin saw a handsome man in a black suit, his daughter saw a beautiful girl in a dress of flame --- Marechal saw Satan as any loyal Mirkarvian would; a red, humanoid demon in the guise of a Senzan uniform sat across from him at the table.

Satan’s dark eyes sparkled. “So, how are you enjoying your stay in Hell?”

“It’s…” Marechal’s face split into a sharp grin, “…magnificent. I get to spend all day killing the man who killed me. I get to play with him like a doll and watch that smug look wipe off his face. It’s Heaven.”

Satan’s nose twitched. “We don’t like the ‘H’ word around here.”

“Apologies,” Marechal replied and picked up a biscuit. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s a rare man for which torture and greatest desire are one in the same,” Satan said, guarded. “It must be awful seeing him come back again and again, though. A constant reminder that you were foiled.”

The comment lashed Marechal, but the smile never faded. “It’s offset by watching the light fade all over again, or taking the time to torture him.” Marechal winked. “I never had that when we met.” _When he killed me._

Satan was tapping on his teacup. “What if I told you there would, in the near future, be a chance to get revenge more on just shadows and mirages?”

Something cool and suspicious and hungry laced through Marechal’s stomach, and he checked for the lie in the Devil’s face.

Swirling the dark tea in his porcelain, Satan studied him in turn, face tilted, haughty, utterly guarded and Senzan in its mannerisms. “You are not the only one who constantly plots vengeance against Johannes Cabal. I’ve seen the way you treat his image and I must say, I appreciate your brutality. Between your vengeful spirit and my creativity, I’m sure we can develop a working partnership in his downfall. He’s sent so many people to me that normally I’d tell you you’d have to wait in line for vengeance, but most of the dolts think that haunting him and jostling chains will actually have some effect on him. You, my friend, have real potential.”

“Why thank you, your Unholy Lordship.”

They stared at each other over the table, two calculating, dangerous men. Different tiers of power and existence, but each possessed of the same pride and ruthless cunning; they understood each other, and their interests currently aligned.

Marechal laughed --- high, rich, possessed with the madness and rage that gave the corporeal true, malicious form in the real world.

He lived his dream in Hell. Every day.


End file.
